


Inception

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: French Kissing, Frottage, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then John is surprised.</p><p>Sherlock did not intend this.  He did not expect to do it.  It is so far outside The Plan that there is most likely no way to correct, no way of going back.  Of course The Plan had gone all to naught a month ago, anyway, when he and John started sharing a bed.  But this—this is rather something more…</p><p>This is a kiss.</p><p>It comes out of nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [londoninjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/londoninjune/gifts).



> This is part 4 of "The Homecoming" series. Other stories in this series include:
> 
> 1\. Enough  
> 2\. Fracture  
> 3\. Unexpected
> 
> You can read this story on it's own, but it makes far more sense in the greater context of the series  
> ___________________________________________________
> 
> Once again, a huge thanks to all of you who have been so faithful to this series. I didn't expect such a lovely response. Your support is so encouraging and appreciated.
> 
> Please note the rating change. Other stories in this series have not been rated any higher than Teen. This installment is rated Mature (barely, but still...).

And then John is surprised.

Sherlock did not intend this.  He did not expect to do it.  It is so far outside _The Plan_ that there is most likely no way to correct, no way of going back.  Of course _The Plan_ had gone all to naught a month ago, anyway, when he and John started sharing a bed.  But this—this is rather something more…

This is a kiss.

It comes out of nowhere.  

Instinct?  No.  Certainly not.  How can one do something out of instinct that one has rarely if ever done before?  One would think that a kind of precedent for such acts would need to be set at some earlier date in order for it to sound admissible and desirable later on.  But kissing has always seemed—unnecessary.  Also, unsanitary.  And silly.  Yes.  Quite ridiculous.  

To quote one of Mycroft’s favorite adolescent adages: _“There is absolutely no point in the pressing of one’s lips to another’s unless you are planning on passing an illness, or are conducting life saving resuscitation.”_

But then, what did Mycroft know?  What had Mycroft ever really known about anything of any importance?  

Theoretically there is supposed to be a niceness to it, he knows.  It facilitates bonding by the release of certain brain chemicals: dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin.  It can be, and often is a precursor to other sex acts.  It is interesting and enjoyable enough to have occasionally induced him to observe others engaging in it.  This was done solely out of curiosity and for the purpose of arousal prior to masturbation.  But prior brief experimentation in person had not proved successful or enjoyable in his case.  Kissing, in those one or two rare occasions he had dared to experiment with it, had been awkward and mildly off-putting to say the least.  

But, today’s kiss.  Well, this kiss is quick, spontaneous, and so unexpectedly pleasant that it may just irrevocably change Sherlock’s whole opinion on kissing in general.

He is standing in the front entry of 221b Baker St. shrugging into his coat, fishing about in his pockets for his gloves.  John comes in from the rain.  He’s been caught without an umbrella again, because he never reads the weather forecast.  _Why?  Why does he never read the bloody weather forecast?_

He is soaked to the skin.  He is shivering.  Sherlock needs to go out to the morgue.  He doesn’t have time to linger about ensuring that John takes care of himself.  He scowls at the rain running in rivulets over John’s forehead, down his neck to slither beneath the collar of his coat.  “I told you to take an umbrella.”

John smiles, but his teeth are chattering.  “You did.  Yeah.  But, it didn’t look like it was going to rain.”

“The forecast indicated that there was an 80% chance.  Not really odds worth betting against.”

John laughs once, and wipes some of the water from his face.  “I think I’d better take a hot bath.”

“That would be wise.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Bart’s.  The Morgue.”

“Need help?”

“No, I’m just picking up some body parts from Molly.  Won’t be long.”

John ruffles his fingers through his hair sending water droplet’s raining over the floor and the front of Sherlock’s coat.  “Chinese take-away tonight?”

“Fine.”

“Good.  Okay.  I’ll order when you get back.”

“Right.  See you in a bit.”  And then he does it.  Sherlock leans down and kisses John briefly on the lips, and then walks out the door.  

It isn’t until the cab he hails pulls up to the curb that his brain catches up.  John’s eyes wide, surprised.  John’s lips, soft, moist with rain and gently yielding, his mouth falls open when Sherlock pulls away, quirks in confusion and—and something else.

“Oi!  Mate!  You getting in?”  The cabbie.  Yes, the cab.  The cab.  He gets in.  He tells the man where to go.  

He can still feel the tingle of the brief contact against his lips.  He thinks he can taste John there.  A slight tang different from his own.  Slightly salty, a tinge of tea, pleasant.  The taste of John on his own lips sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure through him.  Breathe.  Damp it down.  

The lab.  Molly.  Bag of fresh severed digits, sealed in a biohazard container for travel, in a brown paper bag for good measure, because Molly is thoughtful like that.  Molly: brows knit, clearly concerned, asking him questions.  She expects response.  Good—he manages words which seem to satisfy her.  

Another cab. Home. Get out.  Pay.  Oh…

He stands in front of the flat.  Should he go in?  

No.  

Yes.  

No. 

Coffee.  

Speedy’s is busy.  It’s tea time.  Mrs. Hudson is there, chatting up Mr. Chatterjee.  She doesn’t see him.  Good.  He sits at a table at the back.  Damn.  Must order—something.  

No.  Perhaps not.  

Leave through the back, in through Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen ( _remind her to lock her door when she leaves - for heaven’s sake_ ).  

Up the stairs.

John.

John is sitting in his chair, laptop in his lap.  He looks up when Sherlock walks in.  He smiles.  “Everything okay?”

Sherlock stares.  he nods.

John snaps the lid closed on the computer.  He’s just looking at him.  He expects some sort of explanation.  

Fair.  

One of John’s brows rises in expectation.

Sherlock clears his throat.  “Earlier.”

“Yes…”  John is smiling.

“I…”  Sherlock narrows his gaze, looks, searches.  John appears relaxed.  “You’re not angry?”

John laughs—quick, clipped, slightly nervous but also light, amused.  “No.  Angry?  No.  That’s definitely not the word I’d choose.  What was that, Sherlock?”

“It was a kiss,” he blurts out, because the question is ridiculous and he can’t think of anything else to say, and oh— _oh_ …  “Oh, you mean what as in— _why_?”

John nods.

Sherlock just shakes his head.  Why indeed?  He’s been asking himself that same question all afternoon.  “I don’t know.”  Because he doesn’t.  “It—it just sort of happened.”

John seems to consider this for a moment.  He nods.  “Huh—okay.”  Then silence for a moment during which Sherlock sees something shift behind John’s eyes, as though he has come to some sort of decision.  He blinks once and cracks his laptop open again.  “You want steamed rice or fried?”

“What?”

“For dinner.  The rice.  Steamed or fried?”

“Oh.  I, uh—fried.”

“Lamb dumplings?”

“Yes, and the thing with the prawns.”

John types away, entering their order.  Sherlock stares.

“You going to work while you eat, or are you up for a movie night?”

“What would we watch?”

“What do you want to watch?”  John looks up.

Sherlock just shrugs and shakes his head.

“We’re limited to what’s on Netflix or on my bookshelf.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Not Bond again.”

“I thought you liked Bond!”

“One _can_ get too much of a good thing.”

“Fine.  No Bond.  Genre preference?”

Sherlock walks into the kitchen, deposits Molly’s offerings into the fridge, and returns to the sitting room, flopping into his chair with a barely disguised look of boredom.  They are going to ignore the kiss then.  Good.  He is relieved.  _Isn’t he?_

“Genre preference?” John repeats.

“Oh, I don’t care.  Whatever you prefer.”

“ _Inception_?”

“What?”

“ _Inception_.  Leo DiCaprio?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Marion Cotillard?”  John sighs.  “Tom Hardy?”  In a tone that suggests that this actor alone should be enough motivation for him to not only watch, but thoroughly enjoy the film in question.

Sherlock shrugs, clueless.

“We’ve seen it.  You don’t remember this?”

“Well if we’ve seen it, why would I want to see it again?”

“You obviously don’t remember it, so what difference would it make?”

“No.  I don’t want to watch that one if we’ve already seen it.  Something else.”

“Fine.  _Collateral_?”

“Who’s in it?”

“Tom Cruise.”

“No.  No Tom Cruise.”

“What?  Why not?”

“Don’t like Tom Cruise.”

“Oh for…  Fine.  _The Great Escape_ , then.”

“1963, Steve McQueen, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.  Fine.  That’s fine.”

John rolls his eyes a little, exasperated, and turns back to his laptop.  After a few more painful moments of hunting and pecking his way through the online order form, he snaps the laptop shut and leans back with a sigh.  “Food will be here in about a half hour.”

“Good.”

“Hungry?”

“A little.”

“I’m starving.”  John stretches, and then relaxes, setting his laptop on the floor beside his chair.  “Do we have wine?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mrs. Hudson will have some.  I’ll ask her.”

“Why do we need wine?”

“We don’t need it.  I want it.”

“Oh.”

John grows quiet.  He stares down at his hands.

“Move the television?”  Sherlock finally asks.

John’s eyes snap up.  He looks relieved to have something to do.  “Yes.  You want to watch here, or on the couch?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Couch then.”

They move the television set, pull the coffee table back and set the television on top.  John goes down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat in search of the wine.  Sherlock goes in search of clean glasses.  They only ever had two wine glasses and Sherlock blew one of them up trying to use it in place of beaker, and tossed the other into the hearth in a fit of—of—well, of _something_ , the night of John’s wedding.  So they will have to use tumblers.  It’s uncouth and decidedly unglamorous, but John’s never been one to stand on that sort of ceremony.

He needn’t have worried, though.  John comes back wineless.  

“She didn’t have any.”

“Pity.”

“Hmm…  Jasmine Tea then?”

“I guess it will have to be.”

The doorbell rings.  John goes to fetch the food.  He returns, sets the bags on the couch, tells Sherlock to get things sorted, and not to eat all the rice while he’s gone.  He’s got to go upstairs and dig under tarps for the film.

Sherlock brews the tea and then sits down, rifles through the bags.  At least the food is hot.  

John comes back, puts the DVD in the player, flops down beside him.  The bag of food is between them.  “I told you to get plates.”

“You didn’t, and we don’t need them.  Just more to wash.”

“You never do the washing up anyway.  Why do you care?”

Sherlock chooses to ignore this comment.  He’s already torn open the box of fried rice and is picking at it.  John sighs, and holds out another box.  “Your prawns.”

“I want dumplings, too.”

“The dumplings are mine.”

“Share.”

“I’m hungry and you know I don’t like prawns.”

“You can have my rice.”

“Our rice.”

“You can have a larger portion.”

John sighs, and drops two dumplings into the box on top of his rice.  “Here.”

Sherlock fights the urge to smile.  “This film is supposed to be good, no?”

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen it.”

“I have better things to do.”

“We’re doing this more often.  You need to get caught up.”

“Why?”

John stuffs a dumpling in his mouth.  “You juss do,” he mumbles around a mouthful of lamb.

The movie is passable.  The food is good.  Sherlock is hungrier than he realized.  He steals dumplings whenever John gets too engrossed in the film.  John’s caught him at it three times, and rapped his knuckles with his chopsticks once already.  

Sherlock finishes the last of the prawns, and sets the empty carton on the floor before leaning back with a sigh.  John is still eating, so he watches the film more intently.  Steve McQueen is getting sent to isolation for the second time. Sherlock makes a mental note to buy John a leather jacket for his birthday.

John nudges his arm.  “You want the last dumpling?”

“Couldn’t possibly.  You have it.”  It isn’t true, of course.  He could manage quite a bit more, but John needs feeding.  He’s still too thin.  “There’s a little rice left, too.”

“Cheers.”  John reaches over and picks up the near empty box off the floor.  “Good film, this.”

“Mmm-hmm.” 

“It’s been ages since I’ve seen it.  Might have been when I was in Afghanistan, actually.”

“Mmm.”  Sherlock says nothing more.  He doesn’t bring up Afghanistan unless John does, and when John does he lets him lead the conversation.  

Silence.  John finishes up the rice, gathers the empty boxes spread out on the couch and floor around them, stuffs them in the bag, and goes to bin them in the kitchen.  When he returns to the couch he plops down so close Sherlock can feel the heat of John’s thigh next to his.  John leans back, stretches, rests his arm on the back of the couch behind Sherlock.

“Did you know that he knew Tang Soo Do?”

“What?  Who?”

“McQueen.  He was trained in Tang Soo Do by Pat Johnson.”

“Who?”

“Pat Johnson—U.S. National Champion in 2001, came up with the current karate penalty point system?  His teacher was Chuck Norris.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know this?”

Sherlock shrugs.  He’s just talking now, his brain spewing out random facts as they come.  Anything to distract him from the warmth of John’s leg against his ( _when did that happen?_ ), the gentle weight of John’s arm against the back of his neck ( _and that?!_ ). 

“What’s Tang Soo Do?”

“ _Tang Soo Do_ , John!”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.  What is it?”

“A Korean martial art.  It combines subak and northern Chinese kung foo.”

“Huh—never heard of it.”  John’s arm moves, his fingers steal up the back of Sherlock’s neck.  They are playing lightly with the curls at his nape, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine, causing sparks to light up in his head.  His lips tingle at the memory of John’s mouth pressed against his earlier in the day, and—

“It’s become sort of fractured from its origins, but the Moo Duk Kwan founded by Hwang Kee still represents Tang Soo Do internationally.  It’s headed by Hwang Kee's son, Hyun Chul Hwang. The AAU does usually permit…”

John fingers slide further into his hair.  “That’s all very interesting, but—and don’t take offense—but, just shut up, okay, because I’m going to kiss you now.”

Sherlock feels dizzy.  He should look at John, he really should, but instead he’s watching James Garner and Donald Pleasance jump off a moving train somewhere in Germany.  “You are?”

“Yes,” and this murmured so close to Sherlock’s ear it takes his breath away.  “If that’s alright.”

“I—um—I—I…”  He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t form words apparently.  

John’s fingers stop rubbing circles at the back of his scalp.  “Hey.”

He needs to look at John.  Needs to.  Wants to, but…

“Sherlock?”

He does it somehow.  He manages it because it matters.  He looks at John, and oh—

“You okay?”

He nods.

“We don’t have to.”

“No, I—it’s alright.”

“Don’t panic,” John whispers and draws closer.  

“I’m not…”

“Yeah, you are.”  Closer still.

“So are you.”  Petulant.  Rude.  Totally unnecessary.

John only smiles.  “A little bit, yeah.”

Sherlock swallows hard.

“It’s okay…”  And then John’s lips are on his.  They’re warm,  slightly moist.  And still—so still.

A rush of chemicals flood Sherlock’s bloodstream, and he is drowning, drowning in this contact, this kiss that is barely a kiss - so careful, so tender, almost chaste.  But John tastes like rice, and jasmine tea, and something a little sweet.  The breath mints included in the bag with their dinner, Sherlock realizes.  He hadn’t even noticed John taking one.  Should he have…

John’s lips move against his.  Tentative, but not shy.  John is taking this care for his sake.  He feels how tightly John’s body is coiled, the heat coming of his skin, the way his breathing has quickened.  John would like more.

_John would like more._

But Sherlock is coming undone.  It’s like the best high he’s ever had, this rush, this want, need, hunger.  So hungry.  “John…”  His voice, but not his.  _Was that him?_   Is he capable of sounding like that, begging, voice like a moan, almost a whimper.  

And John, oh yes, John, who responds then with hands sliding up his back, balling in the fabric of his shirt, panting, pressing, gasping against his lips.  And more, more, and oh god—the taste of him in his mouth as his tongue slides along his lips and he opens to him, and tastes him, and lets him explore and taste in return.

John slides closer.  His hands are fumbling with the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, tearing it out from where it is tucked in the back of his trousers.  Warm hands slide up Sherlock’s back under his shirt, trails of fire left in their wake, and John’s mouth traveling away from his lips, over his jaw, behind his ear. 

“Jesus…”  John moans into the crook of his neck.

And John’s voice like that, against his skin, so filled with want.  _Yes._   

Sherlock’s hands clinging to the front of John’s jumper, but John—John might like more.  Skin on skin.  He mirrors John, slides his hands up under John’s jumper, feels skin, hot, slightly slick with perspiration.  Too much.  Too much.  He buries his face in John’s neck, presses kisses against the skin there.

“Oh—oh Christ!”  John pressing against him, trembling, almost desperate, pushing him back against the couch, and so—oh—oh!  He can feel John’s arousal now, urgent, hard, pressing against his thigh.  And everything is so—so—too much—not enough—and—and…

“Sher—Sherlock.”  The sound of his name from John’s lips.  Like that.  Like a prayer, like John might be crying, but starving too—for him.  The weight of John’s body pressing into his, harder, frantic, nothing but desperate aching need.  John murmuring words he can’t quite process against his neck.  “Oh god, yes,” and “please,” and “need—sorry—want—can’t—have to…”  John’s breath so erratic.

John reaches down, hooks two fingers into Sherlock’s belt loop and pulls his body closer, so close.  And they fit together perfectly even with layers of fabric between.  He can feel every muscle, the planes of John’s skeleton beneath the heat of his skin, the straining length of his erection, situated perfectly against Sherlock’s. 

John ruts against him, breath stuttering, uneven, gasping.  John goes rigid whimpers against his neck, shudders and then goes limp, panting, head tucked under Sherlock’s chin.  

Sherlock doesn’t move, barely breathes.  He relishes in the warmth, the closeness, the unique scent of the mutual change in their body chemistries as John goes very still.  And then John lets out a small puff of breath and scrambles off of him.  He stands up, looks down at Sherlock, rakes a hand through his hair, turns as though he’s going to leave, turns back again.  

“Sorry.  I—sorry,” he breathes.

Sherlock blinks up at him, suddenly feeling bereft, horribly cold and exposed.  “Why?”

John looks like he might cry.  

Sherlock feels sick.

“That was—I didn’t mean for it to…”  John clamps his mouth shut.  A furrow forms between his brows.  A muscle twitches in his jaw.  He turns, walks a few steps toward the hall, turns back.  

He opens his mouth, but then closes it again without a word.  

He goes down the hall to the toilet and shuts the door.

Sherlock lays on his back and listens to the shower turn on.  He feels— _what?_   He doesn’t know.  Just—just _wrong_.  

After several minutes of listening for John, and hearing nothing but running water, he curls into himself and turns his back to the television.  Steve McQueen going back into isolation, probably for the duration of the war, maybe forever, who bloody knows?!  Credits rolling.  Hateful film!  Awful.  What could John have been thinking?!

His body aches.  All of it.  His lips feel swollen, his face, jaw, neck rubbed raw from the friction of late day stubble.  His hipbone is bruised from where John’s belt buckle had pressed against it.  But none of this compares to the pain of knowing that something irrevocable has just happened, and it’s all gone wrong, and he doesn’t know why.

He just hurts.

“Sherlock?”

_John._   He hadn’t even heard him return to the room.

“What?”

“Can you look at me.”

“Why?”

“Just—just please.”

“No.”  

John sighs.  “Listen, are you—are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“So am I.”

The couch dips.  John sits down in the small space left by the crook of his bent legs.  “Just listen, okay.”  John lays a hand on his hip, and Sherlock wants to swat it away and pull it closer all at once.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t—that’s never happened before.”

“What hasn’t?”

“I don’t usually…”  John takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.  “I didn’t mean for that to go as far as it did as fast as it did.”

Sherlock just shrugs.  _Why should that matter?  Really.  As if that matters at all!_

“It was rude and inconsiderate, and I—I kind of pride myself on being a considerate lover, so I…”

Sherlock snorts.  “I suppose you’ll be wanting some sort of trophy.”

Silence.

 _Not good._   But, he’s angry and he doesn’t know why.

The hand on Sherlock’s hip, balls into a fist, releases.  “Had you done that before?”

“Does it matter?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“It shouldn’t.”

John sighs again.  “Listen, I don’t want you to find yourself in the middle of something, and not want it, and not think you can say ‘no’, okay.  That’s all.”

Sherlock rolls over and sits up in one fluid motion.  “Why would I want to say ‘no’?”  John’s hair is wet from the shower.  He’s changed into pajamas and a T-shirt.  His skin is flushed, lips still slightly inflamed from kisses.  _Why on earth would anyone ever want to say ‘no’?!_

“You’re really okay?”  John sounds genuinely concerned.

Sherlock stares down at his rumpled trousers.  “Of course I’m alright.”

“That’s sort of not how I wanted that to go.”

“What to go?”

“The first time I kissed you.”

Sherlock smiles.  “Thought about that a lot, have you?”  He steals a glance at John, who smiles back.  He looks relieved.

“I have actually, yeah.”

“You have?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, of course I have.”

“Since when?”

John looks away, he smiles a little, it’s a different sort of a smile: small, thoughtful.  _Wistful_.  Yes.

“Since the day we met to be perfectly honest.”

Sherlock stares.

John looks up after a moment of silence.  “Is that a surprise to you?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but no response is forthcoming.  He closes it again, takes a deep breath.  Nope.  Still nothing.

The corner of John’s mouth quirks up.  “You were so—well, you’re brilliant, aren’t you, and clever, a tiny bit dangerous and—and bloody gorgeous.  Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

Sherlock warms at the praise.  “I wasn’t intending to.”

John laughs and Sherlock feels something tight and ugly let go and dissipate in his chest.

“So—how did you intend for it to go?”

“Hmm?”

“The first time you kissed me.  How was that supposed to go?”

John lights up.  He smiles.  His eyes fill with something Sherlock has never seen there before.  “How about you come to bed, and I show you.”


End file.
